


And The Law Won

by MofBaskerville



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Lots of Angst, M/M, Mycroft being sadface, Rimming, Sex, very long pwp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-05
Updated: 2012-11-05
Packaged: 2017-11-18 01:36:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/555435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MofBaskerville/pseuds/MofBaskerville
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft decides to break up with Greg for reasons that have very little to do with the Detective Inspector. Greg, understandably, has issues with this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And The Law Won

**Author's Note:**

> OK, so my angst muse, which I need for "Brother's Copper," has buggered off. I decided to try to lure her back with schmoopangstsmut, and ... yeah. We have this amazingly long fic. Someone on my tumblr posted the Clash's cover of "I Fought the Law," hence, title. 
> 
> This is a sequel to nothing in particular, but it's likely set in the universe that began in "In Plain Sight." Perhaps. Maybe.

There were several courses of action Mycroft Holmes could have taken.

 

He could have activated his security system – on Level 3. Of course, the electric shock might be a hard thing to explain away, especially in some quarters, and there _would_ be enquiries. It would be unavoidable.

 

He could have made a discreet phone call and the problem would have been dispatched quickly and efficiently – to a lovely, out-of-the-way pub, of course. He wasn't a barbarian. Or in Damascus.

 

He could have just ignored the door chime, and then the furious pounding, and finally the growling obscenities. The person could not just walk in and could not possibly know for an absolute certainty that anyone was home at all.

 

Thus, Mycroft had many fine options from which to choose in hopes of dealing with a problem he'd hoped would go quickly go away. And thus it made _perfect sense_ that he chose the one option he had not delineated – that of opening the door.

 

“ _Finally._ What the bloody _fuck_ , Mycroft?”

 

A very red-faced Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade stood bristling in the doorway, holding his mobile out at arm's length as if he'd just discovered it was radioactive.

 

“I know you're younger than me, but you're not bloody fifteen! Breaking up with me through text? _Fucking hell_!”

 

“Gregory, I –”

 

Mycroft raised a brow when Greg bulled past, slamming the door behind him. The elder Holmes warily watched Lestrade stalk around the foyer like a caged animal, trying to ratchet his anger down enough to deliver whatever speech he'd clearly been rehearsing all the way from New Scotland Yard.

 

He suddenly stopped pacing and looked up.

 

“Just tell me _why_. Just last night, things were good. Things were _great_.” He glared at his phone. “Now 24 hours later it's: 'I've reevaluated our new association with each other and find that perhaps it is not one that will prove advantageous to either of us in the long run. Be well.' What the _fuck_ is that?”

 

“I did not want to be maudlin, insincere, or unclear,” said Mycroft, highly aware that Lestrade was more enraged than he'd ever seen him, and that he'd underestimated – slightly – the detective's reaction to his text. “I also did not want to drag things out. Once I was sure of my course of action, it seemed prudent and only decent to let you know immediately.”

 

“How fucking _gentlemanly_ of you,” spat Lestrade. “Sorry if I don't doff my cap and bow!”

 

Mycroft sighed. “You're not wearing –”

 

“What happened? Sometime between snogging the breath out of me last night and an hour ago, _something_ fucking happened!” Lestrade brandished his mobile like a weapon. “These words mean fuck-all to me, Mycroft. Tell me what I _did_.”

 

“You didn't do anything.” Mycroft paused. “I had a … change of heart, if you will.”

 

“A change of _heart_?” Lestrade's voice vibrated with suppressed rage. “Deciding on the red tie over the yellow is a change of heart. Going into criminal justice instead of maths at uni is a change of heart. Deciding to get mash instead of chips with your steak is a fucking _change of heart_! Dumping someone after three months when everything was ace is _not_ a change of heart! If you're going to turf me, at least fucking _own_ it. I want an explanation – a real one!”

 

Mycroft glowered, his eyes narrowing. “Do I? I seem to think that the desire to end a relationship requires no further elucidation beyond the stated fact. Did your ex-wife _explain_ to you exactly why she cuckolded you and broke your trust? Or did she merely continue to shag her lovers in your marital bed whilst you went about under the delusion that all was well?”

 

The taller man saw Lestrade's posture stiffen, and he readied himself for the blow he was sure would come. Mycroft wanted to provoke Greg's ire, goad him, push him to the point of no return. As painful – literally – as it would be, the elder Holmes just wanted it done with, wanted the man out of his home, and the situation at an end so that he could get on with getting genteelly drunk and blotting out, for the moment, the self-loathing and disgust he felt.

 

But the tension suddenly rushed out of Lestrade's body and he seemed to sag in on himself. He looked suddenly bewildered and despondent, much like a boy who'd been promised a pony at Christmas only to find a box of dirty socks under the tree.

 

“I don't understand … I thought you were … I thought we were ...” His Adam's apple bobbed. “I don't understand how I buggered this up. I'm – I'm falling in love with you, Mycroft.”

 

It was the expression as much as the sentiment that made something give way within the auburn-haired man. Seeing Greg there in the middle of his living room looking so lost and despondent made his stomach clench. He regretted throwing the infidelity of his ex-wife in Greg's face. He knew the lawman would forever blame himself for that slag's transgressions, no matter the vast evidence to the contrary. It was a point of weakness in the steady, solid man, and Mycroft felt like the lowest form of life for exploiting it.

 

“Greg,” Mycroft said with a soft sigh. “I am sorry. I feel … I simply underestimated my time commitments and my ability to truly be present in this relationship.”

 

“Look, we didn't just meet yesterday,” said Lestrade. “I may not know exactly what it is you do, but I know that we could be in the middle of dessert and there'd be a HC1 landing on the roof ready to airlift you to Riyadh or wherethefuckever. I _get_ it. And it's not as if I'm sitting around with nothing to do, either. I thought we'd been handling our schedules pretty well the past few months.”

 

Mycroft pursed his lips, but he wondered if along with everything else going wrong, he was becoming a bloody imbecile, as well. Stupid, stupid, _stupid_. He was using a “scheduling” excuse on a man who routinely was awakened out of sound sleep to peruse a crime scene dappled with bits of brain and blood spatter.

 

“Yes, well, perhaps.” Mycroft harrumphed, and adjusted his tie. “But we've been fortunate. We may not continue to be so. And, of course, there's Sherlock.”

 

“Sherlock? What about him?”

 

There was a catch in Greg's voice that made Mycroft frown.

 

“My brother can be difficult on his best days. You have come to rely on him and he on you. If he were to find out about us ...”

 

Greg straightened, and his eyes narrowed. Mycroft immediately stopped talking – stopped breathing, almost. He felt like a deer who had been cautiously edging around the forest but who despite it all, had sighted the hunter too late.

 

He'd erred. Greg's expression told him as much. His eyes were glittering and the edges of his mouth were twitching. Mycroft knew the look. It was one he often wore when listening to a foreign potentate spin out a series of elegant lies, readying for the moment that he could jump in and hoist them on their own prevarications.

 

“Ah.” Mycroft sighed again. “He knows. How long has he known? And how long have _you_ known that he knew?”

 

“Dunno how long he's known. Probably from the beginning.” Greg shrugged loosely. “I didn't tell him and I didn't reckon you would. I didn't say anything to John, either. But he was in my office when I got your text. I wasn't going to take it at first; we were talking about the Fremont murder that Gregson's people had just bolloxed up. But Sherlock said 'Mycroft prefers talking to texting, and if he can't wait another hour until your lunch break comes, it must be something he deems important.'”

 

Mycroft almost smiled at Lestrade's imitation of his brother's speech patterns. As for the rest, obvious deduction. Greg's expression must have been one of surprise and maybe delight when he read the display on his mobile. If Sherlock had, in fact, known of their relationship from its inception, it would have been child's play for him to figure out who could be texting that would put such a happy expression on the detective's face.

 

“So I read the message.” Lestrade sounded grim. “Maybe I said a curse word or two. Or five. Loudly.”

 

The elder Holmes _did_ smile this time.

 

“I was about to tell Sherlock to take off, but he got up and said he'd ring me when he'd completed his analysis of the ballistics. Then he said 'My brother does tend to get in his own way. You'll need to go to him if you want to fix this.' Then he left.”

 

Mycroft nodded slowly. Sherlock would know that a simple canceled date would not elicit such a response – it would have to be something far more serious. _My brother does tend to get in his own way_? This was a fine time for brotherly approbation. He wondered how much of Sherlock's apparent softer stance toward relationships was down to Irene Adler, and how much of it was down to a certain Army doctor.

 

“So sod your schedule and sod Sherlock not liking it. Anyway, I wouldn't give a toss about either, and neither would you.” Greg's shoulders rounded. “So what was it? Something I said? Something I _didn't_ say? Something I did? Something I didn't –”

 

He broke off, staring speculatively at Mycroft. “Wait. Is this about last night?”

 

“Last night?”

 

“Right. When you dropped me off at mine … and I didn't ask you in?”

 

Mycroft kept the mildly confused expression on his face, but inside he was cursing himself roundly. Why hadn't he _foreseen_ that Gregory would jump to that conclusion? He should have waited a day or two to give a bit of distance between that event and the severing of the relationship. But _now_ –

 

The hesitation seemed to confirm the detective's suspicions, and he groaned.

 

“Oh hell, that's it, innit? Dammit, Mycroft, I had to be at court at eight in the bloody morning! The Chief Inspector would've had my balls if I'd shown up looking as if I'd spent the night shagging my brains out. I wanted to have you come up, you've got to know that. I've only been thinking about if for three months – longer, if I'm being honest.”

 

“Greg –”

 

“You can't be throwing me over because of one night!” Lestrade's eyes were moist and pleading. “I'd hoped that our next date, we'd … well, I don't have any court appearances for the next while. I was looking forward to it. I wasn't turning you down because I wanted to.”

 

“Gregory, I ...”

 

Mycroft halted, considering his next words. If _he_ were being honest, he'd secretly hoped that his laconic text to Greg would be met with more than just a return message of: “Oh, this is over then? Right. Cheers.” He'd not wanted Greg to be upset, but he could admit to being slightly chuffed that Lestrade had decided not to let it simply rest.

 

On the other hand, they were drifting into dangerous waters. Mycroft really didn't want to go down the road that would lead to Greg pitying him rather than simply despising him.

 

But those _eyes._ Lestrade standing there, hands outstretched, giving him those _eyes_.

 

Fuck.

 

“It was not that you didn't invite me in.” Mycroft massaged the bridge of his nose. “In fact, that was perhaps the best thing that could've happened under the circumstances.”

 

“How's that?”

 

Mycroft waved toward the couch. “Sit. I see I'm not going to be able to escape this with my dignity intact. Perhaps I don't quite deserve to do so.”

 

Lestrade gave him an odd look, but sat perched on the edge of the couch, his hands on his thighs. Mycroft moved to an armchair and lowered himself down, staring blankly at the wall for some seconds.

 

“Well?”

 

“It is hard to know how to even say this, so I will dispense with any fripperies or preambles. As you know, that can be difficult for a Holmes.” Mycroft looked at Lestrade with a sardonic smile. “But you are right. You deserve an honest, complete answer as to why I wish our relationship to end.”

 

“So, it _was_ about last night then?”

 

“In part,” affirmed Mycroft. “But not for the reasons you believe. I was … relieved when you did not invite me into your flat.”

 

Lestrade looked taken aback. “You – but ...”

  
The redhead held up a hand. “No. I am _not_ saying that I am not attracted to you in that way. It is quite the opposite.”

 

“All right.” Lestrade mulled that a moment. “Then _why_ …?”

 

“Because I understood that we had reached a certain threshold in our association,” said Mycroft. “Your appearance at the Old Bailey prevented our crossing it last night, but I knew that such an occurrence would not present itself a second consecutive time. It was clear that after our subsequent date, you would expect things to end in the bedroom.”

 

“Well, that's usually how it goes when two people fancy each other,” said Lestrade, rubbing his chin. “And you just said you fancied _me_ in that way, so I don't get it. You talk as if you don't want to go to bed with me.”

 

“I didn't. I don't.”

 

Mycroft thought that if he spoke while facing the floor, the lie would come out a bit smoother. It did so, but he still wanted to gag.

 

“What? But I don't understand –”

 

“It isn't that I don't want to because I don't desire you. Far from it. It is that I am ...” Mycroft took a very deep breath. “... Inept in bed, Gregory. I've been told so before by previous lovers. In excruciating detail.”

 

There. He'd said it. If _this_ was not going to scare Lestrade off, Mycroft wondered if he'd have to revisit the Security Level 3 option.

 

“You're _what_?”

 

Mycroft looked over sharply. Greg's mouth was agape and he looked as if he'd just been kneed in the bollocks – appropriate, really, given the tenor of the conversation.

 

“I'm horrible at sex. A bad lover. An awful shag. A lousy lay,” Mycroft gritted. “Need I go on?”

 

“Someone _said_ that to you?”

 

“Some _ones_. I do believe I used the plural when I mentioned that I'd been told this before,” said Mycroft. “More than one of my past lovers has found me wanting in that area.”

 

Mycroft looked expectantly at Greg. The detective seemed to still be somewhat thrown by the revelation. He was slightly pale and he wasn't blinking.

 

“Okay ...” Lestrade sounded dazed. “All right. How many people are we talking?”

 

Mycroft fought down a stab of disappointment. He wouldn't have been _too_ sad if Greg had come over and thrown his arms around him, assuring him that such slanders were beneath him and that he was sure that he was an amazing lover. But he had to admit it was a good question.

 

“More than one person –”

 

“Right. _Plural._ Got it. How many, Mycroft? Two?”

 

 _Damn him_.

 

Mycroft lowered his eyes. “Three.”

 

“Three,” repeated Lestrade. “Out of how many?”

 

“I can't see what possible reason –”

 

“Are you serious? You're telling me to piss off because of what three blokes – we are talking blokes, yeah? –”

 

Mycroft nodded slowly.

 

“Right. Because of what three blokes said to you god knows when, you want to throw me over. Now if it's three out of three, then I could understand why you might be nervous about us. But if it's three out of _fifty,_ or something, I'm going to punch you in the nose.”

 

The redhead smiled sadly. “That might be a vast improvement on what is there.”

 

Greg's expression softened. “Nope. I love your nose, and I can think of things I'd rather do to your face that don't involve chinning you.”

 

“That is … mildly disturbing.”

 

“Came out a bit wrong.” Lestrade cleared his throat. “So … three out of how many?”

 

Mycroft briefly glared at Lestrade before bending to the inevitable.

 

“I've been physically intimate with eight men in total.”

 

“Three out of _eight_?”

 

Lestrade's voice was mildly disbelieving, but Mycroft honestly couldn't tell if it was because Greg had expected the number to be higher or lower.

 

“Mycroft, that's not even half the blokes. It's not even 40 percent of them!”

 

Mycroft grinned. “Ah. Why _did_ you opt for criminal justice over maths in uni?”

 

Greg flushed but he grinned back. “Didn't want to be cooped up in a classroom talking about theorems and limits and all. Plus, made it easier to justify coveting my granddad's gun collection.”

 

“Of course.”

 

“You're trying to change the subject,” said Lestrade. “I don't get why this bothers you so much. It's nothing!”

 

“It's not 'nothing,' Gregory. Perhaps it _is_ less than half, but it is more than a third,” said Mycroft coolly. “A distressingly high number in any case.”

 

“So because a few twats insulted you –”

 

“No. They were not _twats_.” Mycroft paused. “Well, perhaps _one_ was, but for a vastly different reason. I did not please them sexually. They made me aware of this fact. In those often-insipid women's magazines Sherlock loves to read, it is often strongly hinted that a less-than-stellar sexual performance should be dealt with in that manner – by making your partner aware of where he has fallen short.”

 

“By talking it over, sure, but not in a way that humiliates you and makes you feel horrible about yourself,” said Lestrade. “Listen, it's not anything to be so upset about, is all I mean. No one's born the perfect lover. When I was younger, I had some experiences that weren't exactly stellar. You learn and you do better –”

 

Mycroft smiled bitterly. “If only I retreat behind youthful inexperience. No, Gregory. The three men in question are my most _recent_ lovers.”

 

Greg looked at him. “Recent? How, uh, _recent_ are we talking?”

 

“Five years ago, three years ago, and … hmmm … not quite two years ago. Respectively.” Mycroft shrugged slightly. “So you see, my sexual acumen has declined rather than sharpened over the years. That is something that would not bode well for _our_ relationship, I think.”

 

Lestrade started to speak, but stopped and patted the space next to him on the couch.

 

“C'mere, you.”

 

“Pardon?”

 

“Get over here,” said Lestrade. “This isn't a conversation I want to have across the bloody room.”

 

Mycroft grimaced. “This isn't a conversation _I_ want to have at _all_ , Gregory.”

 

“Too bloody bad. You said I deserve an _honest and complete answer_ as to why you want to rubbish the best thing that's happened to me in a decade. If it's all going into the skip over three men I'll never meet and definitely will never shag, then I bloody well _do_ want some more details.”

 

Mycroft heaved himself to his feet, walked over and plumped down wearily next to Lestrade.

 

“This is embarrassing in the extreme, Gregory. As embarrassing as if I'd said nothing and simply let you discover my ineptitude for yourself.”

 

“I'm not trying to embarrass you,” said Lestrade softly, putting his hand on Mycroft's knee. “I'm trying to understand. You want to end things over something I have no control over. Something tells me you didn't have much control over it, either. I'm not giving up without a fight.”

 

“It is …” Mycroft swallowed thickly “... difficult to discuss these things. Even with you. _Especially_ with you. I feel that perhaps you will think less of me –” _And I could not bear that._ “ – and that would not be … optimal.”

 

Greg turned toward him. There was a hard light in his eyes and his lips thinned into a tight line.

 

“Well, what if I told you about the bloke I took home from the pub the night I made sergeant? The one who took one look at me when we were starkers and said 'Lucky for you I'm not a size queen.' Or about the first time my ex-wife called me someone else's name when we were shagging? And yeah, I said the _first_ time, because it happened more than once. Lots more. Or about the fight we had when I asked for the divorce and she said she'd stopped liking sex with me four years ago and she was only able to get off thinking about other blokes.” Lestrade's eyes never left Mycroft's. “D'you think less of _me_ now?”

 

Mycroft hesitated just a moment before placing his hand over Greg's.

 

“No, I … of course I don't, Gregory.”

 

“I'm glad. But you know what's just as important? _I_ don't think less of me, either,” said Lestrade. “My ego took some major hits, but I never once thought 'Cor, my cock wasn't big enough for one bloke, so Mycroft won't fancy it either' or 'Marjorie stopped getting off to me even before I knew she was shagging everything in sight, so I'll be crap in bed with Mycroft.' D'you understand?”

 

“Somewhat. But that is different. _I_ am different,” said Mycroft with a shallow smile. “I'm not used to being told that I am … _bad_ at something.”

 

Lestrade's laugh was bitter and brief. “Is that it then? You can't stand to not be absolutely amazing at everything? Hadn't you ever come in second in anything? Sack race at school? Monopoly with Sherlock?”

 

“Not really, no. And that particular game was banned at our home.” Mycroft lowered his head. “It … hurt to think that I was not adept at giving pleasure. I had deduced their preferences. I thought that it would be easy. That it was not _and_ that I left such a sour impression was difficult for me to accept.”

 

There was a short silence before Greg squeezed Mycroft's knee.

 

“Tell me about them. Start with the first. Bloke from five years back.”

 

The taller man looked up. Greg's expression had shifted immeasurably. The handsome face was tender and open, silently exhorting Mycroft to rely on him and trust him. There was a calm patience there that made the younger man simply want to rest his head on Lestrade's shoulder and confide all his troubles. And the hand on his knee was a reassuring weight. Mycroft sighed.

 

“He was vile.” Mycroft shuddered at the memory. “A corrupt, mendacious, unprincipled hypocrite.”

 

“And you _shagged_ him?”

 

“Four times,” answered Mycroft. “I was … not quite myself then. Work was quite intense and Sherlock was nearing the end of his treatment. I had to plan for his re-entry to society, and he was being ... less than cooperative. I needed something to take my mind off things. _He_ presented the solution.”

 

“Who was he?”

 

“A thief and a liar,” Mycroft sneered. “Younger than myself, but not by much. He'd been at uni with Sherlock, but two years ahead. I found out later that Sherlock knew and despised him, and that the feeling was quite mutual. Had I known that beforehand, I might have steered clear. Once I had that information, it was obvious that Milverton had sought me out as part of some long-held vendetta against my brother, not for any charms I may have possessed.”

 

“Why did you, then? Just boredom and not wanting to think about unleashing a clean and bored Sherlock on the world?”

 

“It was both more and less complicated than that,” answered Mycroft. “This man was unparalleled in his ability to obtain certain … information. Information that often proved embarrassing to well-connected families in the Commonwealth. I trust I don't have to spell it out for you.”

 

Greg looked duly impressed. “Uh … no. I think I get the picture.”

 

“He was on the MOD's radar for years, but he never did anything strictly illegal – not anything that could be proved, anyway. It was decided that perhaps someone of his talents could be used for _good_ , so to speak. I was dispatched to convince him to take a post in the government.”

 

“Convince? You mean bribe?”

 

Mycroft smiled faintly. “No.”

 

“Oh. Threaten?”

 

The smile sharpened almost imperceptibly.

 

“Gregory, really … what _do_ you think we get up to in my profession? I'm simply a minor official, you know.”

 

The detective chuckled. “And you wonder why I fancy the hell out you, Mycroft Holmes?”

 

“Yes. I _do_ wonder. Constantly.”

 

Greg rolled his eyes. “Maybe we can get to that later. I've a list. So you were sent out to … _convince_ this bloke to play nice?”

 

“More or less. Milverton was not intelligent in the purest sense of the word. In another era, he might have been a dockworker drinking away his pay, or a quack peddling 'cures,' or in a debtor's gaol. But he had a sort of low cunning, and startling luck that allowed him to live like a viscount. Still, he was a coarse man with affected drawing room manners. He fancied himself a member of the upper class, but money cannot buy breeding. I was repelled by him, and yet, I did find him intriguing in some ways. He knew what my mission was and he resented it, but he was not immune to flattery. He craved it; he couldn't help himself. I understood that completely. He fascinated me. One thing led to another, and ...”

 

“You shagged.”

 

“Yes. It was not … wonderful. For me, I mean. He insisted on topping, which was fine, but he was not very adept at it. But it wasn't entirely unpleasant. That is to say, I always reached orgasm during our encounters. I assumed he did, as well.”

 

Mycroft swallowed hard, trying to resist the pull of the memory, and failing.

 

“On the final night, we were … in the midst of it, and he stopped. I didn't understand why. I had been close to … well … _finishing_ and it seemed he had been, as well. He pulled out and informed me that he was losing his erection and could not continue. He then pulled out an … implement – I suppose you could call it a _toy,_ but it looked much like the prototype for a certain weapon the MOD scotched several years ago. At any rate, he gave it to me and directed me to use it on myself while he watched. I … did so. I'd thought that maybe he needed some additional visual stimulation, and once given, he'd regain his arousal and go back to doing what he'd been doing. Instead, he wanked while watching me, came off, and then got up and dressed. As he left, told me that he'd put the hotel room on my credit card. I never saw him again.”

 

“Bastard,” Greg murmured, the venom evident in his voice. Mycroft smiled thinly.

 

“Indeed. I received a rather terse email from him a few weeks later, turning down the MOD's offer of employment. He also stated that for such an intelligent and engaging man, I was rather useless sexually. He suggested that I go for tutelage to any number of willing parties who would do such things for money. He then listed several members of Parliament – most of whom were married – and their starting prices. He also offered to furnish references if any one of them in particular struck my fancy. Needless to say, I didn't follow up. I also had the 'toy' destroyed.”

 

“A complete dick,” said Greg, shaking his head. “Tell me about the next one.”

 

“Ah. That was rather more short-lived. He is someone you've seen on telly. Famous, as far as that goes. My department came into some information that if released, well … let us just say it would not have done wonders for national security _and_ it would have netted his ex-wife millions more pounds in the divorce settlement. He was, understandably, quite frantic. He spent much of the time in my offices moaning about his reputation and good name being on the way to ruin. Tiresome, really, but he was attractive and not unwilling. I was … well, I was not unwilling.”

 

Greg glared at him. “Mycroft ...”

 

“This is not self-deprecation, Gregory. I mention it because it was clear to me that I was not his 'type.' He preferred willowy blondes. His family, in fact, had already picked out another one for him to marry. But he was curious about men and he wished for me to assuage that curiosity.”

 

“He just asked you to fuck him? So he could see what it was like with a bloke?” Greg's voice was incredulous.

 

“He finessed his request a bit, but admittedly, not much,” answered Mycroft. “And again, I was not unwilling. It didn't go well, needless to say. He was nervous, as was I. He couldn't relax, no matter what I tried. He barely touched me, and finally he asked me to stop what I was doing, as it was uncomfortable. He apologized profusely. Decent of him, really.”

 

“If you say so,” muttered Greg. “But I suppose he just realized blokes weren't his cuppa –”

 

“Oh, not at all.” Mycroft looked surprised. “He married his second blonde. A lovely woman who looks the other way while he shags his traveling secretary – a tall, slender blond who did a bit of work on the stage, I think.”

 

“But –”

 

“He wrote me a letter on lovely stationery. I suppose he didn't want to trust the e-mail system. An unerasable trail and all. He mentioned that he was quite sure that those _desires_ he had were just a trick of his mind, but that being with his new lover made him realize that he did fancy men after all. He expressed himself amazed that it could be so wonderful. He didn't think it could be so, after our encounter.”

 

“He actually _said_ that?”

 

“Again, with a few more flourishes, but yes, that was the gist.”

 

Greg was silent for a moment. Mycroft picked at the hem of the blanket that covered the back of the couch.

 

“All right, and the last bloke?”

 

“Former colleague. Always meant to be a one-off. We were in Reykjavik. Horrid hotel, boring assignment, not much to do except eat and play chess, and we did both assiduously. We'd flirted off and on over the time we'd known each other –”

 

“Wait? When was this again?”

 

Mycroft thought back. It was a week or two before John Watson entered the picture.

 

“A shade less than a year and a half, I believe.”

 

Greg grunted. “Really. So all those times you were kidnapping _me_ for status updates on Sherlock, you were making eyes at this bloke?”

 

“Gregory, I don't _make eyes_ ...”

 

“You _do_. Last night when the waiter brought the tiramisu, you made eyes at me over that candle Angelo insisted on putting down.” Greg smiled at the memory. “Thought I might have to change my pants.”

 

“Such a flatterer,” said Mycroft dryly. “At any rate, I did not _make eyes_ at Lorton. And you _were_ married at the time.”

 

“Yeah, well, all right. I suppose you have me there. Go on.”

 

“There really isn't much to say.” Mycroft shrugged. “We were drunk and thought it a marvelous idea to have a shag. He was up for something quick, rough and dirty. I was sure I could oblige. I was a bit concerned, given the way my most recent encounters had gone, but I tried not to think about that very much. It went rather horribly, of course. Lorton barked out orders like an RAF Sergeant and it was freezing cold in the room. I could not get comfortable and I found it difficult to maintain an erection. Finally, we decided that maybe getting completely drunk would be a better way to spend the time. Later, he went trawling for paid companionship and was caught with his pants down, so to speak, when he couldn't explain the nature of some of the items he listed on his expense account. He lost his post as a result – and he blamed me, saying that if I'd not been such a useless minge, he wouldn't have had to go out for a bit of rough in the first place.”

 

“Christ.”

 

“Yes.” Mycroft smiled brightly. “So there you have it, Gregory. The sum total of my awkward and dispiriting sexual adventures. Aren't you so _very_ glad you asked?”

 

“Yeah, I am, actually. It's about what I thought,” said Greg. “First bloke was a pillock who knew you didn't like him, second wanted you to make his decisions for him, third decided that shagging you might be better than whatever passes for telly over in Iceland. Not once did you talk about what any of them did _for_ you.”

 

Mycroft blinked. “But I was a willing participant –”

 

“That's not what I mean. Doesn't seem like any of these blokes were out to please _you_. They just wanted to get off. When it didn't go as they expected, they decided to blame you.” Greg grit his teeth. “Should've been the other way around. I would've told that bloke – Millingville –?”

 

“Milverton.”

 

“– I would've told him to shove that thing up his _own_ arse if he liked it so much. You said the second bloke hardly touched you. You know how I came to know I liked men as much as I liked women? It's when I realized I loved touching and sucking a cock as much as I love to be touched and sucked. I'll bet his traveling secretary gave him that lesson right off. And the third bloke … well, some people do like to be bossed about in bed, but the way he did it was not on. And you blame _yourself_ for all of this?”

 

“ _I_ was the common denominator.”

 

“But you put their needs above yours,” said Greg, gently rubbing Mycroft's thigh. “You deserve to get off on it, too, you know?”

  
“I did so with Milverton. But he never enjoyed it. It rankled me.” Mycroft bit his lip. “Perhaps I am a person who prefers to please more than I prefer to be pleased. There are such people in the world, Gregory.”

 

“Yeah. I know.” Greg stared into ice-grey eyes. “But something tells me that you've never really been properly pleased by any of the blokes you've shagged.”

 

Mycroft looked away. “Well ...”

 

“Hmm. Thought so.”

 

“I've had orgasms. I'm not completely denying myself release. I'm no masochist.” Mycroft was slightly defensive.

 

Greg smiled and squeezed his thigh.

 

“Mycroft, I've had shags and wanks that could only be termed mediocre, and I've come from them, too. Listen … sex is a two-way street. Maybe cliché, but true. If someone's a bad lover, most of the time it's because their partner's no great shakes, either.”

 

“Perhaps in the cases of Milverton and Lorton you are right, but the second man in my narrative was simply inexperienced.”

 

“Well, I might give him a pass on that, but after what he wrote to you, he can piss off.”

 

“It didn't matter. I wasn't offended. Much,” he amended at Greg's eyebrow tilt. “He was rather a fool, and if he doesn't take care, he will end up destitute in some sad pension hotel on the Continent.”

 

“Couldn't happen to a nicer bloke, you ask me.” Greg stared at him. “This isn't all on you, Mycroft, is what I'm saying.”

 

“What bothered me was the look of utter disappointment on all of their faces – afterward. Whatever their ultimate motives might have been, they all were aroused and keen for a shag, and I … I didn't perform well, in their eyes.” Mycroft darted a glance at Greg. “I knew that if I saw that same expression on your face, I'd be … I'd feel ...”

 

“That wouldn't happen.”

 

Greg moved his hand up to the back of Mycroft's neck, gingerly stroking the fine hairs at the nape.

 

“If things were starting to go pear-shaped, I wouldn't tell you to bugger yourself or suggest we stop and go for a pint. I'd try to figure out how to fix it and make it right.”

 

Mycroft sighed, trying not to lean back into the touch. He was almost comically unsuccessful. “What if it _couldn't_ be made right? There are people who are … simply incompatible in that way.”

 

“True. But it'd take more than a few bad shags for me to give it up.” Greg massaged more firmly. “So let's see if I've got this right: You figured out that I was gasping to shag you into the nearest mattress and you decided you'd better end it before I found out that you'd had a few bad experiences? God, you and Sherlock make it hard as hell on me and John sometimes.”

 

“We Holmeses are somewhat difficult to understand.”

 

“You're _impossible_ to understand,” countered Lestrade. “I reckon that's what keeps us hooked.”

 

“We are also somewhat difficult to, er, like … a great deal ...”

 

“Nope.” Greg pressed a kiss to the side of Mycroft's neck. “Falling for you lot is easy, too, if John's experience has been like mine. It's the rest of it that's a bloody cock-up.”

 

“There's … a lot of … 'the rest of it' ...” Mycroft's eyes fluttered shut as Lestrade began to mouth along his jawline.

 

“Yeah, but I love you all the same.”

 

Mycroft hummed beneath his breath. Lestrade was almost _tasting_ his skin, licking along a patch that Mycroft knew to be liberally dotted with freckles.

 

"I, too ... have strong feelings for you, Gregory, in a similar vein."

 

"Is that a Holmesian way of admitting you're in love with me?"

 

"Er, bang-on, as they say."

 

"God, I love it when you go working-class on me." Greg pulled back to look at the younger man. “But even if you didn't love me back, I wouldn't be giving you up."

 

“No?”

 

“No.”

 

“I have no say in this matter, do I?”

 

“Nope.” Lestrade's voice was cheery. “At least not until I get you to realize you had nothing to worry about with us. Because I've already worked out that shagging will be brilliant with you.”

 

“And you decided this …?”

 

“First date. When you spoke Spanish to the waiter. The way you rolled your 'r's' … let's say I had a nice long wank later that night thinking about what else that tongue could do.”

 

“Ah. I had _thought_ that it wasn't your service pistol I'd seen in your trouser pocket.”

 

Lestrade stood and pulled Mycroft to his feet, pressing himself against the tall man. “Bedroom.”

 

“Come again?”

 

“First things first.” Greg grinned lazily, looking up with hooded eyes. “Bedroom. And if you ask me 'Which one,' I _will_ haul off and lamp you and you'll have to take the fee for the surgery out of my pension fund.”

 

"In that case, second door on the right.”

 

Greg beamed, kissed the tip of his nose and took him by the hand along the darkened hallway. Mycroft hadn't realized it was so late, but it had to be gone six by now. He hadn't eaten and he'd promised Anthea that he would check in to finalize their travel plans for Dubai.

 

All of that was forgotten when Greg led him into the bedroom and used his lips to push him against the nearest wall.

 

Mycroft gave a low hum of approval as the kiss deepened. Greg's mouth was warm and tasted faintly of sugar and forbidden cigarettes. He felt Lestrade's fingers digging into his buttocks, pulling him flush against his body. Mycroft's hands circled his waist briefly before moving down to cup his rear, mapping out the contours of his magnificent arse.

 

Lestrade pushed back to shuck his dress shirt and trousers, and he toed off his socks with alacrity, leaving nothing on but his underwear. Mycroft watched him with glazed eyes, reaching for him at last to place gentle pecks along the side of Greg's face and neck. He was enjoying the taste of the smooth skin when he felt a hand squeezing the burgeoning hardness in his trousers.

 

“This is for me, yeah?” His eyes were glimmering.

 

“Gregory ...” Mycroft forced himself to breathe when he saw the outline of Greg's stiff cock through his pants. “I don't think … I wasn't expecting to –”

 

“Me either. I didn't think I'd be able to fix this.” Greg worked the topmost buttons of Mycroft's waistcoat loose. “I reckoned that I'd come over here to ask why you wanted to end it and you'd say 'Because you talk like a bloody chav and you still don't know what knife to use to butter your roll, you daft prat.' Wouldn't've been able to argue there, would I?”

 

Mycroft sighed when Lestrade divested him of his suit jacket and waistcoat. That his finery was on a puddle on the floor and he couldn't be arsed to care at that particular moment was a testament to how undone he had become by Gregory's kisses.

 

“There is a head of state who used his butter knife to cut into his pork loin. At a white-tie dinner. You have the table manners of the Duke of Edinburgh in comparison to many of the people with whom I'm forced to interact.” Mycroft's breath hitched when he felt Greg's hands at his belt buckle. “And I … I love the way you speak.”

 

“Yeah?” The voice deepened slightly and Mycroft absently stepped out of his trousers, which were now down around his ankles. “Good. Because I like to talk in bed.”

 

“Oh ...” Mycroft twitched when Greg palmed his cock. The front panel of his y-fronts was becoming increasingly damp, and he bucked into Lestrade's palm, biting back a moan. It was hard not to yelp when Lestrade pulled down the pants entirely, bidding Mycroft to step out of them. Naked, now, Mycroft shivered under Greg's unwavering stare.

 

“I … I don't say very much when I am … making love. Problem?”

 

“Not really, though I'd like to hear you say a few words eventually.” Greg walked him backward to the bed and pushed him gently down. “We'll work up to it, though. Let's start with my name, and go from there.”

 

“Oh god ...” breathed Mycroft.

 

“Not quite,” teased Lestrade. “Lie back, okay? I want to try something, but only if you want.”

 

Mycroft looked up at the eager expression and sparkling eyes that made Lestrade look about 20 years younger despite the silver hair and worry lines etched into his brow. He swallowed hard and tried to relax.

 

“All – all right.”

 

“I'm serious, Mycroft. We don't have to do anything you don't want to.”

 

“I … it's fine.” Mycroft arched up, trying to get more of his skin in contact with Lestrade's hands. “Tell me what you want.”

 

“I want to deduce you, what you like, what gets you off.” Greg rubbed slow circles on Mycroft's collarbones. “Out loud, since you fancy my voice so much. You can do the same for me, but no talking. All right?”

 

Mycroft nodded. He didn't need to speak aloud while deducing. Sherlock really didn't need to either, though he tended to do so when he wanted to show off or when a case was particularly complex.

 

“But I want you to tell me if I'm doing something you don't like. Promise me you will.”

 

“Yes …” Mycroft closed his eyes. “I promise ...”

 

“Good.” Greg bent to kiss him softly on the lips. “Well let's see. What is it that makes you go mad? I think I can figure it out easy enough. Hmm … let's start with your bed.”

 

Mycroft cracked open an eye. “My bed?”

 

“It's big, but you're a tall bloke and this is a big room, so that's not really anything surprising. But it's luxurious. Soft sheets, lots of pillows. A duvet that probably costs more than my monthly salary.”

 

Fingertips danced across his skin, and Mycroft writhed in sweet agony.

 

“You travel loads. You're not in this bed more than half the year, but you make sure to have the finest, softest things you can put on it. It's not about money. You like smooth things next to your skin … you like a gentle touch. No rough stuff.”

 

“Ah ...” Mycroft shivered when the fingers trailed through the sparse hairs on his chest and down to the flesh of his tummy, gently circling his belly button. The head of his cock was throbbing fitfully and he could almost feel those talented fingers circling him, ringing the tip …

 

“You handle yourself roughly when you wank alone, but with a partner, you like a gentle touch.”

 

Said hand encircled his shaft, and Mycroft jerked upward with a strangled yell. Greg laughed softly, and another kiss landed on his neck.

 

“You like a bloke to take his time and wank you nice and slow at first, get it all slippery, work you up into a good lather ...”

 

“Gregory ...” Mycroft's voice was hoarse. Greg's palm was slick with precome and the wet sounds his hand made gliding on his cock made Mycroft groan. Pleasure radiated through his groin and out into his hips, which started to rise upward, begging for a tighter, faster grip.

 

"Good?" Mycroft could hear the grin in Lestrade's voice.

  
  
His mouth worked soundlessly for a few seconds and he had to settle for a quick nod. _Good_? _Good_ wasn't even close to describing the sensations the detective was pulling out of his leaking cock. It was _incredible_.

 

“You've got a perfect cock,” murmured Greg, speeding his movements. “Is that why you prefer not to top? You like showing it off, don't you? I would too, if I had this cock. Long, straight … just like your fingers and that nose I love … You like it to be stroked while you're being fucked. It gets you off more than if you were buried balls deep in a tight arse.”

 

“ _Yes_ , oh … Christ ...” Mycroft bit down on his lower lip, desperately trying to slow down his thrusts, but the hand on his cock urged him on. “I'm close … so very close … please … I need ...”

 

“You need more, I know. I _know_.”

 

Two fingers swirled at the wetness at the tip of his cock and Mycroft held his breath, knowing what was coming next.

 

“You need me to be inside. Tell me. Tell me how many times you've wanked thinking of me fucking your perfect arse … working your beautiful prick ...”

 

“Constantly …” Mycroft breathed out harshly, his body trembling with need. He opened his legs a little wider to give Greg better access. “Constantly since I've … met you. E-every night since we've become … involved.”

 

“How long did it take you last night? After you came back from dropping me off at mine?”

 

“Seconds … I wanked in the car … I could not help myself ...” Mycroft wriggled madly, reaching for Lestrade's free hand. “Gregory, _please_. If you do not finger my arse this instant –”

 

He gave a long, trailing moan when Greg pushed inside him, sinking in to the first knuckle.

 

“Fuck … you're so bloody tight.” Lestrade's voice was unsteady. “Is this okay?”

 

For a moment, the tall man could do nothing but breathe in and out, concentrating on not spontaneously combusting on the spot.

 

“Mycroft? Am I hurting –”

 

“No –” The redhead gasped and squirmed, nearly knocking Lestrade off the bed. “More … please … push in a bit more …”

 

“Mmm, like this?”

 

“ _Yes ..._ ” Mycroft clamped around Greg's finger as he burrowed deeper into his body. “N-Now a bit to the – the left ...”

 

“Over here?”

 

“Y-yes … now … now … crook your finger, as if you are beckoning to me.”

 

The effect was immediate. Stars bloomed behind his closed eyelids and Mycroft gasped, fisting the bedcovers.

 

“Oh – oh _yes_ … exactly like …”

 

Mycroft felt his body begin to tremble. Greg's hand slid expertly along his cock, never breaking rhythm, and the twisting motion he made when he approached the tip nearly made Mycroft weep, it felt so amazing.

 

"Gregory – oh dear god, I’m … I’m going to come …"

 

“I know ...” Greg's voice was awed. “I can feel your cock pulsing, getting thicker, hotter … I want you to come, Mycroft. Come hard, get it all over me –”

 

Mycroft gave a desperate lunge upward, yelling so loudly he was sure that the ceiling was going to come down on their heads. His body was wracked by wave after wave of a sensation that straddled the line between pleasure and insanity, and he shouted with each pulse of his cock.

 

The taller man was a long time in regaining the senses not hardwired into his prick. He vaguely felt the rasp of tissues over his skin as Greg wiped him clean, and he felt the warmth of Greg's body as he curled up to him. The detective's fingers tangled lazily in his hair and Greg rested his face in the jointure where Mycroft's neck sloped into his shoulder.

 

“How'd I do?”

 

Mycroft fought for breath, which came in soft gasps, before turning to face his delighted lover.

 

“At the risk of ruining the afterglow, I would venture to say that working with Sherlock has had a positive effect on your deductive skills, not discounting your own talents as a detective, of course.”

 

“Thanks. Next time he hares off after a suspect without checking in with me first, I'll be sure to tell him that hanging around him helped me make his brother come so hard it was like a geyser going off.”

 

“Promise me you will. In those exact words.” Mycroft smiled in the darkness. “The expression on his face will be _exquisite._ ”

 

“It'll be nothing to the expression on _my_ face when you bring me off.”

 

Mycroft smothered a laugh as Greg began wantonly rubbing himself against his thigh.

 

“You have such a talent for subtlety.”

 

Lestrade made a noise of dismissal. “I come from a line of blokes who nipped around France during the Terror cutting off heads and knew enough to get the fuck out when shit started hitting the fan. Subtle's not in my bloodline.”

 

“Ah. Vive la France, then.”

 

Mycroft lurched up and swung himself round to straddle Greg's supine form. Between the bulge in his y-fronts, the drying lines of semen on his belly and the cheeky smirk, the detective looked utterly debauched. He ran his hands over the flat planes of Lestrade's stomach, eyes going hazy as he drank in his pliant form.

 

“Remember, no talking ...” Greg's breathing was beginning to sound labored. “I mean, no deductions out loud … you can talk, answer questions or ask them, but ...”

 

“Ah, are we playing _that_ game? Submission and dominance?”

 

Greg looked chagrined. “Sorry … sorry … didn't mean to sound bossy.”

 

“Yet you're so very good at it. I think that is a subject we'd do well to revisit. Now hush and let me work.”

 

Mycroft tilted his head, watching the older man squirm. It was a good show, Greg's using his surroundings to help him in his deductions. Had Mycroft been on Lestrade's turf, he would have done the same, but he really didn't need to, in this case. Gregory had made it incredibly easy for him. His insistence that Mycroft remain largely silent indicated that he had hopes that his mouth would be busy … elsewhere.

 

Mycroft looked down at the tented pants and wet his lips in anticipation. Greg huffed out a startled laugh.

 

“God, you are _good._ ”

 

“We shall see.”

 

Mycroft started with his face, kissing him from temple to jaw line and back up the other side, then worked my way along his neck and shoulders. Guided by Greg's moans, he licked along his collarbone and then down to one nipple, nibbling it gently between his teeth and rolling his tongue around it.

 

“ _Jesus fuck_!”

  
Mycroft's head shot up in alarm, and he looked into Greg’s face. His eyes were closed, and a dreamy smile played on his lips. He didn’t look like he _wasn’t_ enjoying himself, and yet Mycroft was uncomfortably reminded of how his last encounters had gone.

  
“What is it? Am I biting too hard?”

  
Greg opened his eyes and blinked in surprise “No, no, it’s just right ... hardly anybody ever does it like that. How’d you know?”

 

Mycroft simply looked at him. Greg chortled and let his head fall back, mumbling something that sounded like _Bloody Holmes …_

 

Relaxing now, Mycroft swung his head around to play with Greg's other nipple before deciding to move on to bigger and better things. His lips trailed through his silvery chest hair, tracing their path as they descended down his stomach and joined the bushy thicket that was only hinted at by the now-sodden pants. Mycroft took a breath and pulled at the inconvenient garment, gratified when Lestrade lifted his hips to aid their removal.

 

Mycroft canted his head and let his gaze wander down Greg's body. The uncovering of a new lover was a once-in-a-lifetime experience, and he wanted to savor it. Gregory was absolutely breathtaking. He had the physique of a man half his age, which the grey hairs accentuated rather startlingly. The scars of his profession were present, though, to Mycroft's great relief, not very high in number, and his thighs and legs still retained more than a hint of the strength built long ago from many hours on the pitch.

 

But what drew Mycroft's attention most forcefully was Greg's cock. It bobbed in the air, seemingly of its own accord, clear liquid leaking from the rosy head in an unceasing stream. It was a shade longer than average, but the thickness of the shaft had Mycroft wriggling in anticipation. That he would have such a work of art inside him one day ...

 

Greg squirmed beneath him. “Everything okay?”

 

“Yes. Perfect.” Mycroft took a breath and reached for Greg's cock, enjoying the feel of it. Its warmth spread into his palm and it seemed to pulse at the same rhythm at which his heart pounded.

 

“You sure?” Lestrade levered himself up onto his elbows. “Was it, uh, about what you were expecting?” He gestured with his chin toward his erection.

 

“And more.” Mycroft lazily stroked the heated flesh. “I was thinking about the man who remarked on the size of your endowment. I do fear for the state of his bum.”

 

“ _Now_ who's the flatterer?” said Gregory laughing loudly, shaking his head. “Not to be a git, but I don't think I'm supposed to be giggling while I'm in bed with you and you're wanking me.”

 

“Then I'll have to do something about that, hm?”

 

Mycroft released him and bent his head almost simultaneously, and Greg shouted an impressive string of curses at the ceiling. His mouth slid delicately up and down the meaty shaft, taking him in halfway before moving his lips up again. Gaining confidence from Greg's moans, Mycroft angled his head and began to slide his mouth down the length of the shaft, licking and nibbling at the flesh with his lips until he felt the tip hit the back of his throat.

 

“Mycroft … oh _yeah_ – like that – all the way down … take it all ... oh _fuck_ –”

 

Lestrade began to move his hips, and Mycroft matched his movements, bobbing his head in time with the thrusts. Mycroft stroked his mouth over him with increasing speed, making deliciously obscene slurping sounds that were only slightly drowned out by Greg's moaning commentary.

 

“God … dreamed of your mouth … came off so fucking hard last night … wanted to fuck you … should've had you up ... to hell with court … wanted to make you come ...”

 

Mycroft ran his fingers down the tight cord of flesh that led from the base of his balls down between his arsecheeks, and was rewarded with a low grunt and a slight twitch. Greg had never been fucked, that much was clear, though he was almost certainly open to it. He didn't want to press his luck, and he feared even a finger might be a bit much for Greg at the moment. But there were, he knew, other options.

 

Inspired, he worked Greg's cock while sliding his tongue down over his balls, along the stretch of skin below that and down lower … down … down to his –

 

When Mycroft's tongue breached his opening, delving in and out, the sound that came out Greg's mouth couldn't be termed intelligible speech at all. Lestrade thrashed about on the bedsheets, but a hand clamped on to Mycroft's shoulder, holding him in place.

 

Mycroft stiffened his tongue as much as he could and pressed closer. He'd never tried it before, but he wanted to see if he could stimulate Greg in the same way in which he'd done to him earlier. And if not, perhaps the sensation of would be enough to please him. He'd been blessed with a tongue slightly longer than average, and perhaps … ah … stretching just a bit … a bit more … _there._

 

“ _Oh. Fucking. Hell_.” Greg wailed, his hand quavering on Mycroft's shoulder. “I – it – Mycroft ... f _uck_!”

 

Mycroft lifted his head in time to see Greg's hips lift from the bed. Pulses of pearly liquid coated his hand seconds later, seeping through his fingers and lubricating the final few strokes.

 

Lestrade had softened in his fist and his breathing had evened out before Mycroft had decided to make an attempt at moving. He crawled up to rest beside Greg wincing a little when he realized he'd landed on the proverbial “wet spot.” He didn't care for the moment, and he dabbed at the slickness on Lestrade's chest and stomach with a placket of tissues, thinking that a shower would be the best course of action before too long.

 

He glanced over at Greg, a bit startled to see him watching his closely, a vague smile lifting his lips.

 

“Did I miss a spot?”

 

“Probably. But since I think some of them are on your walls, that's understandable.”

 

Mycroft looked over the headboard and saw a wet splotch darkening the wood paneling.

 

“Impressive.”

 

He was going to have to renew his nondisclosure agreement with the cleaning service he'd hired, apparently.

 

“I haven't shot off like that since uni.” Greg hooked an arm around Mycroft and pulled him close. “You are … amazing. Those blokes who didn't get off with you … were cracked.”

 

“Well, to be as fair as necessary, I didn't do anything like _that_ with any of them.” Mycroft paused. “It never quite got that far.”

 

“Proves my point. Cracked. I'm sorry they were arses, but I'm not fucking sorry they never saw this side of you. I think I'd have to hunt them all down and shoot them.”

 

Mycroft retained a discreet silence. Someone had taken care of that already – for Milverton, at least. It was an amusing story, in a way, but he didn't want to spoil the mood.

 

"You see how amazing it can be when you give someone a bit of direction instead of screaming at them? Or taking the piss? Bloody fantastic." Greg turned his face into Mycroft's neck, nuzzling the soft flesh there. “Christ. Don't think I can move … don't think I want to, either.”

 

“Ah. Are you channeling your Gallic forebears once more in declaring your intention to stay the night?”

 

Greg glanced up at him sheepishly. “Oh. No, I was going to ask ...”

 

“I was teasing.” Mycroft stroked his face, trailing his fingers over his jawbone and down his neck. “There is no need to ask. Please stay. That is a blanket invitation that is valid for as long as you like.”

 

“Mm … cheers. Works the other way around, too. Don't have a bed with linens made from goose-arse-hair or whatever this is over us now, but it's a bed anyway, with sheets and all. Clean ones, too.”

 

“I look forward to making its acquaintance. And this is a simple four-ply cashmere throw. Nothing magical at all. Goose-arse-hair might be a great deal more prickly than I like.”

 

“Pillow talk with you is never going to be dull, eh?”

 

"And yet _you_ were the one who brought up 'goose-arse-hair.'"

 

Greg chuckled, resting his head on Mycroft's chest. “This is definitely the best not-breakup I've ever had. This could be a thing, you know. Not-breakup cards, not-breakup flowers, not-breakup sex ...”

 

“Intriguing. If you were to add in 'not-breakup dinner,' I would think you'd have something of a cottage industry on your hands.”

 

“I think takeaway was made for this very occasion, whether they know it or not. Fancy Chinese?”

 

“There's rarely a time that I don't. There's a lovely place down the road that delivers. Any requests?”

 

"So long as it's hot and not still moving, I'll take anything."

 

"I think I'll refrain from asking what experiences you've had that you've felt the need to make _that_ particular request."

 

Mycroft reluctantly untangled himself from Gregory and searched the pile of clothes near the door, unearthing his mobile from his waistcoat. Entering his passcode, he noted that he had four texts awaiting him. He sighed beneath his breath. There was only one person who would text so incessantly without first receiving a single reply. Looking briefly over at Gregory, Mycroft pressed the envelope icon.

 

**Don't be a fool. - SH**

 

**If he refuses to work with me because of your idiocy, I will never take another case of yours again. - SH**

 

**He is besotted with you. It's disgustingly evident. What more is it you need? - SH**

 

**You might try happiness for a change, brother. Leave the past in the past. - SH**

 

Mycroft's eyes lingered over the last message. Sherlock knew about Milverton, he'd known that for years. But the others …? Sherlock could have used the knowledge to humiliate him, but instead he'd stored it in that phenomenal brain of his. Sherlock had persisted in the idea that only the most important information had any business being stored on his “hard drive.” What could be deduced from the fact that he'd kept his brother's pain locked up there for so much time?

 

There was a rustling sound that drew Mycroft's attention. Greg was sitting on the edge of the bed, a sheet wound around him.

 

“Mycroft? All right there?”

 

“Yes. I'm sorry.” He padded back to the bed and sat next to Greg. “Messages from Sherlock. John must be working late at the surgery. He gets antsy, you know.”

 

“Anything important?”

 

“Perhaps ...” Mycroft's voice was cautious. “Some time ago, I said something to him … imparted some advice. It's clear from these texts that he didn't heed my words.”

 

“Oh. Well that's Sherlock for you. Has to do things his own way. What'd you say?”

 

Mycroft was quiet, remembering the coldness of the mortuary, the crying family he and Sherlock had observed, Sherlock's plaintive query about whether Mycroft ever questioned if there was something wrong with _them_ rather than with the “normal” people who had “normal” lives and “normal” feelings of love, grief, loss.

 

_All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage … Sherlock._

 

“It was something I thought he needed to hear. Something I thought would give him comfort.” Mycroft swallowed hard. “It was a time at which I did not want to see him hurt any more than was necessary.”

 

The elder Holmes paused, amazed that the feeling seemed to be mutual. His brother constantly surprised him - pleasantly, even.

 

“Bugger.” Greg kissed his shoulder. “I'm sorry he didn't listen to you.”

 

“No,” he said, wrapping his arms around Lestrade. “Thank god that he did not.”

 

Lestrade looked up at him, brow furrowed. “I don't understand.”

 

“Thank god for that, as well,” murmured Mycroft, pressing his lips to his forehead. “Now, food, Gregory. Lots of it, I think. I do believe I'd like a second round ...”


End file.
